


Atonement

by cykelops



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Marvel Legacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 02:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12312456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cykelops/pseuds/cykelops
Summary: That none of the X-Men questioned why Scott had been buried in Muir Island instead of Westchester was a testament to how far from their graces the boy had fallen.





	Atonement

_ New Atillan, 2017 _

He did not take trophies, not from those he would see eradicated from this world. Blood and rubble were their own reward. There was never a struggle, merely the breath between defining what he wanted and taking it. He knew nothing but the upper hand, the pleasure of being ten thousand steps ahead. Resigned to a life constantly hurdling towards chaos, he took solace in knowing chaos and tragedy were not always one and the same. Chaos was not Asteroid M, Genosha, or Utopia. It was standing on the remains of vile little men with delusions of grandeur, missing pieces of himself and still far more  _ powerful  _ than they would ever be. 

“One could say this is twice I owe you.”

Max didn't turn towards the sound of her voice. He stood with one arm over his helmet, eyes closed. Debris hugged the thin magnetic bubble he formed for the purpose of meditation. He was a man of some years now and bits of dead fascist were only so good for the constitution. The bubble reshaped itself around Emma’s figure and let her inside. Their combined efforts stained her snow white clothes a dull grey, like the half circles under her eyes and the beginnings of her roots showing through the fading blonde. Old and tired, both of them.

Max ran his fingers through his hair and ducked his head into his helmet. Dawn creeped up on them, bleeding away at the indigo night. 

“You can repay me in one.” He offered. It was too light a tone for what Emma owed him, but his heart wasn't committed to anything heavier. If he considered mind control the last straw then he would be incapable of living with himself.

Emma sighed softly, prepared to pay her dues, but far more amused than concerned at the pretense. It was a sad thing to crush her high spirits. Max favored her still. Their time together had not been short lived, and there was honor amongst men and women of similar, radical moral values, even in the face of betrayal. It was a pity to have that conversation then and there. Emma shared the high of their victory, but he wanted more from this and she was, unfortunately, in the way. 

“I want his body.” He said simply. 

Emma’s eyebrows knitted together, confused. She opened her mouth to counter with a question before realization sunk in. She crossed her arms over her chest, tight as a vice.

“Whatever for?” She asked. 

“The ones who bother to visit his tombstone stand on an empty grave.” Bitterness seeped into his voice. “He left behind a body. It is not proper.” 

“You could always come visit his true resting place.” She offered, always a woman of compromise.

He shook his head. “We share one secret too many, Emma. I will not add to the list. He is my responsibility.”

A slip of the tongue, lending itself to misinterpretation and overreaction. Emma’s skin shimmered with a violence. She thrust her chest forward and tilted her chin up.

“He died in my arms while you grieved a man who took in a broken boy and did everything in his power to control him as a broken man. You would see him buried beside him, forever bound to that old--”

“I would see him among his family. As he would have wanted. As he deserves!" Max snapped. The magnetic bubble vibrated dangerously around them and then dissipated. He scoffed. “It matters not what you believe. You will give me his body, because you _ owe  _ me.”

After playing games with Max’s head, and with that of the children under his protection, he ought to  _ take  _ the body from her. He could make a thousand threats: burn her operation to the ground, shatter her, scatter her into the wind, but that would not make her cooperative, it would just make her proud. He had no use for pride.

Emma’s fist closed over her chest. She turned away, her diamond skin screeched with the force of her grip. Light broke through the mist, bouncing off her in vibrant, red tones before the wind forced the clouds back over the sun. He understood her dilemma. She had plans for the world, big ones, some which would benefit from his assistance. She had a choice to make, to appease him with what he'd asked for, or to place sentiment over one less obstacle on her quest for power. 

“Promise me…” Emma gritted out. “Swear on your life-- anywhere... Anywhere but beside Charles Xavier.” 

His helmet shrouded his eyes in shadows. He inclined his head. He would do more than give her his word, he flashed her a glint of teeth.

“I swear on my life.”

=

_ San Francisco, 2011 _

“The party suffers in your absence.” Max said. He closed the door, muffling the orchestra inside. Finding him wasn’t too troublesome. The fog clouded the windows and it was too cold to be out so no one else thought to look for him there. 

“I doubt it.” 

It wasn't the first time Scott escaped a party earlier than what was socially acceptable. Emma was in charge of wrangling back the guest of honor, if he didn't convince her to run together. Max found him by chance once in his own endeavor to escape a claustrophobic ballroom. He continued to volunteer his time when their leader went missing thereafter. Scott would always steal the best bottle of liquor before making a quick exit. It was a nice exchange. 

There was no liquor and no Emma this time. His voice was dangerously neutral. One foot crossed over the back of his ankle, he leaned forward with his elbows on the marble railings. Max joined the clearly troubled man. He allowed him a few minutes of companionable silence before he pressed him.

“What eats you?”

The tense line of his shoulders told all. Think-lines cut through his pretty face. Max couldn't say what the problem was for sure. He wasn't uncomfortable during his speech, or after as they mingled with the guests, but he was a fine actor at these events. He accepted Max’s invitations to meditate with all the passivity of someone who was used to having his mind read. Max was afraid to confess he couldn't understand what went on in his head half the time.

“Every day it becomes apparent I've bitten off far more than I can chew. Placing myself as the face of mutant unity worldwide… I don't know what I was thinking. I could barely lead the X-Men, much less the mutant race.”

Scott’s honesty took him by surprise. He expected to stand in silence a while longer, as they usually did when Max took an interest in his wellbeing. Max was considered Scott’s concierge, but for Scott to actually  _ confide  _ in him was a rare occurrence. Scott wasn't done. 

“When you came to Utopia… You came down from the sky looking like a force of nature. Zeus’ freaking lightning bolt. I don't know what scared me more, that you might be there to take Utopia from me or…”

Max fixated on that word.  _ Freaking.  _ So unlike Scott. Almost as much as that wobble of his lower lip. 

“That I would let you.”

There were a number of reasons why Scott wasn't popular, even hated. Jealousy was among them. The man had an enviable sense of self-confidence. He had to. His every word held lives at stake. He was a strategic mastermind, so organized and put together in the face of adversity it was simply not  _ normal. _ Max sneered at that sort of talk. Scott was as damaged as the rest of them, but that would not serve to comfort anyone for more than a few bittersweet seconds. 

Max knew and it robbed him of no sleep, but what could he do to help?

He touched his hand to the small of his back, over his suit jacket. Formalwear was an eyesore on Scott, self-doubt moreso. 

“Scott… Want it or not, our leader cannot falter. They cannot abide weakness even inside their own mind.”

He recoiled from his touch. “I know. Alright, I know that--”

“So. Scott Summers.” Max continued, gripping his elbow tightly and bringing his body close. He saw Joseph in his mind’s eye, his old self. He straightened, puffed out his chest, and looked down from his nose. “For the next ten minutes, I hereby strip you of your rank and claim it as my own. You've no cares or responsibilities. All will fall to Magneto. You need only look to me for what to do henceforth.”

Scott’s eyebrows rose over his shades. His lips went round. Confused, he processed his words one at a time until the lines of his face softened and his mouth closed. His hands came up to Max’s chest and gripped the lapels of his suit in absence of anything else to hold onto for steadying his footing. He was sure to feel Max’s heartbeat jackhammering against his ribcage while smoothing his fingers over the fabric.

He wasn't sure he said the right thing right until the moment Scott smiled. 

“I remember you telling me you would make me kneel for you when this time came.” He teased. 

Max looked down at the floor and scuffed his finely polished shoe against the tile. He made an unamused sound. “Maybe on the carpeting inside.”

Scott laughed. He swayed in place once like he was readying to take a step back and instead buried his face in Max's chest. Max wrapped his arms around him instinctively. His shoulders shook like a newborn colt, frightened and unsure of the world.

“What do I do, Max?” His voice was wet, unrecognizable. 

“You stay like this until you're ready, my boy.” He hesitated to touch him without permission. Scott rubbed his cheek against him like it hadn't crossed his mind it might be improper. Max covered the back of his head with his hand and thread his fingers through his soft, brown hair. It was a simple answer to a weighted question, but Scott nodded anyway, like it was enough. 

“Thank you.”

“Whatever I can do to ease your pain, Scott, I will do it.”

He was surprised by how much he meant it. History taught him not to make promises like that, and Scott not to believe them. 

Somehow they stood together, taking deep, slow breaths, and trusted.

=

_ Undisclosed Location, 2017 _

Moonlight walked across the threshold and met the golden glow of candlelight. The wind showered rose petals over the bamboo floors and filled the room with the gentle sound of chimes. Incense tickled Max’s nose and fell heavy over his eyes. He was not a spiritual sort but the atmosphere suited that place among the mountains. It suited Xorn. 

The man was uncomfortable with him but not with a dead body’s head on his lap and another lying in wait nearby. Max insisted on the handkerchief over his eyes. The terrigen was responsible for most of the horrors across the sunken face, but rot begun to set in despite Emma’s best efforts. Max noted the candles Xorn chose were subtly scented and was grateful, despite having grown accustomed to the smell of death. 

Xorn stroked his thumbs over his cheekbones. “I remember… In my time with the X-Men, he suffered from chronic pain. So terrible it was he barely noticed the difference between the pain in his day-to-day life and blood poisoning.”

Max nodded. “Migraines. I know.”

“Not migraines. Something more…” Xorn lingered on that thought and his hands stilled. “You understand I cannot do what Elixir does.”

Xorn was careful not to face him as he spoke. Max’s eyes narrowed to slits. He blew his cover helping Emma, no one thought he was dead anymore, but that did not mean they had any business knowing how he escaped his demise. He would make an exception for Xorn. After everything Emma put him through recently Max doubted Xorn would be eager to involve himself in matters beyond his mountain.

“Can you reverse the damage done by death and the mists?”

“Yes, but--”

“That’s all I ask.” 

Xorn stopped for a breath before he nodded. His hands glowed the same faint blue of his eyes as he cupped the jaw. The healer’s hands were firm and certain, but change was not instantaneous as he was used to seeing. Xorn grew more nervous as the only shift remained the light thrown across the rotting skin. Nothing. Doubt pricked at his heart, vile and unwelcome, quickly replaced by an anger that would burn it all away. The damage was too much, the mists had shriveled his body beyond repair--

Max watched flesh cover bone like hot wax. It mended the meat of his face first and spread down to his neck and chest. Xorn breathed his relief. The pressure around Max’s heart released. 

=

_ Muir Island, 2017 _

Layla Miller was a hard woman to find with chaos reigning in Latveria. Max hadn't known to look for her there in the first place. Last he'd heard of her and Jamie they had eloped to some inoffensive little town, just big enough to fall on the map, and retired for good. Apparently, farm-life wasn't for everyone, especially not a militia leader in Doctor Doom’s dilapidated country.  

“You weren't at your last address.” He pointed out.

Layla surveyed the room as her namesake, a butterfly fluttering from one corner to the next. Her curious fingers lingered on every bottle, paper, and bit of furniture, but she steered clear from the center of the room and the two metal cases lying side-by-side. 

“Jamie and I barely stayed a year.” She smiled. “He said the white picket fence and the two kids thing wasn't for us. He thought I might be unhappy. That was the timeline, you know. Settle down, have twins, live peacefully. I wouldn't have it any other way. I know stuff… Jamie didn't believe in stuff.”

“Twins?” Max chimed in politely. Her eyes were distant, he coaxed her back to him with a chuckle. “Multiple Man, indeed.” 

“Oh, no. That was all me. From my mother's side.” 

He thought the correction odd but said nothing of it. A string if pleasantries would only delay what they were both here for. He opened the case closest to him pointedly. The handkerchief still rested over his eyes and over now clean, smooth skin. 

“When he is whole, Layla, I would gladly help you with Jamie’s--”

“No.” She cut him off. She snapped her glove off her hand. “I do this not because I want to, but because the timeline demands it. Be warned: It will not end well, but if I do not do this now…”

Layla turned to touch the edge of the other case.

“It will be worse.”

Max had relied on the words of oracles and clairvoyants before, for all the good it did him. No, he had no room for hesitation in his heart, not even for Layla’s warning. He made his decision long ago. 

“Whether or not you want it, Layla, you have my gratitude.”

She pinned him with her big, sad eyes. “I don't.” 

Layla put her hand over the handkerchief. She smoothed the fabric over the bridge of his nose, pausing at the lace. There was an unmistakable fondness in her caress. Her breath shook on the next exhale. When her thumb finally touched skin, her eyes rolled upwards and went white. All the blood drained from her face, spilling across her upper lip and chin in thin drips. Max caught her before her knees buckled beneath her.

He lifted her into his arms, supporting her beneath her knees and back. She had done him a great service and he would do his part as promised. He laid her down over her husband’s coffin and brushed a lock of her golden hair away from her face. He pressed his fingers to her throat to ensure her heart beat steadily. He left the key in her jacket pocket. Jamie was ready to take home, to be buried with more dignity than the mists’ cruel boils had afforded him before Xorn’s amends. 

“Farewell, child. May you know peace.” 

He left the empty case behind and carried his charge home in his arms. 

=

Three trials, three tests of patience, and all was finally in motion. Emma had provided the body, Xorn had reversed the passage of time, and Layla had rejected their very reality. The Butterfly had completed the most arduous task of all, and all was bound to change. It was only a matter of waiting.

That none of the X-Men questioned why Scott had been buried in Muir Island instead of Westchester was a testament to how far from their graces the boy had fallen. No one would come looking for him here.

So much waiting. 

He wouldn't believe Layla’s touch had failed. He only had to be patient. There was more to be done after this, with all the information he had he knew the man who would stand from the bed in the next room and cross the threshold into Max’s office wouldn't be  _ entirely _ his Scott. 

Yes, Layla Miller could only bring soulless husks back to life. The essence of who they were was trapped in Heaven or Hell, or so they said. Max believed in neither. Illyana and Kurt could attest for the existence of both, but Max had been to this Hell at least. It was not the Biblical Hell nor was it Dante’s accursed inferno. It was a place between worlds full of fire and monsters for which there was no accurate or more appropriate name. 

He had pried into X-Factor’s personal experience with one of these soulless husks through one of their more agreeable members. Julio Richter was an old student and prone to babble when he was nervous. Max made him nervous by being in the same room. He told him all about it. In his opinion, Guido was still himself after Layla’s resurrection. He knew people, he knew how he felt about them before he… went, he was just a bit fuzzy around the edges. Death had played tricks with his head. 

He could work with that. Max would make things clear again. 

“What…”

His voice froze him in place and spread through his body like wildfire all at once. Months of work had gone into this one moment. Soundproofing the house, bringing the children under his wing, planning their return back in time. All so he could make room in the world for him, to atone for his mistakes. On the window, between his neatly spread fingers, stood Scott’s reflection hunched against the doorframe. 

Max went to him in a flurry of cloth and the sharp metal clicks of his boots. He had dressed him in that ugly plaid nightshirt he loved so much, to jog his memory of better times. Along with it was his favorite visor, shiny and gold, in place where it would not tug at his hair as he so disliked. Scott shook like a newborn colt on legs that hadn't held him in a year’s time. Cold sweat lined his brow, his teeth ground hard as his body struggled to find warmth. He was white as a sheet, but he was  _ there _ . 

“I will explain anything. You shouldn't be up and about just yet, dear boy.”

“What--” Scott’s thin fingers dug around his visor. Max finally noticed the skin around the rim was red and raw, covered in nailmarks like Scott had been tearing at it for hours. Like he couldn't remember how to get it off. He panicked, both at the damage and at Scott’s insistent tugs on the only thing holding back his optic blasts. 

“Scott, your visor-- Don't--”

Max couldn't catch his wrists fast enough. The visor finally slipped on the sweat and grime gathering over his eyes. He braced himself for the impact. 

“What have you done to me, Erik?”

The blasts never came. Red on black, like a harvest moon on a starless night. Scott rose from his hoarse voice one word at a time until his name slipped past his lips on a dangerously high, desperate note. 

“What have you done to me, Erik?!” He screamed.

He stood as a statue until Scott tired of his silence. He made no move to defend himself while Scott beat feebly against his chest. He didn't stop his descent when he slid to his knees and clung to the edges of his cape. Scott cried until red veins spread across the scorched once-whites of his eyes.

And screamed, and screamed, and screamed. 

**Author's Note:**

> if marvel legacy wont bring back scott summers then by GOD i will. 
> 
> this prose is purple on purpose. It's how i de-stress from semi-serious fics.
> 
> just in case it wasnt clear, w my writing nothing is, by the end of this scott is revealed to have been depowered by his resurrection


End file.
